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should be writing my formal letter of complaint to the PCT. I will get there, but it is going to be a long missive,
copies of which will be going to at least one interested MP and to my
the moment I am stuck on the second paragraph. Oh, there is so much to write
and every word is very difficult.
thought I would tell you a little story instead. It is a happy story and should
bring you some cheer.
the spring, a very late spring for us, I insisted that Jonathan come out to the
garden and look at the blossom on the old apple tree. It was so covered in bloom that it seemed to generate its
own light: white and pure; incandescent with life and with promise for the
had never looked so beautiful.
dutifully admired the blossom – he had a keen awareness of the beautiful.
did add that it would probably save us a few pounds a week when we harvested
the apples – but let’s not lower the tone.)
the branches of the tree are nearly snapping with the weight of the fruit – they
are literally bowed down with the brilliant red apples.
so we get to the heart of this little story.
will understand that after a loss like this, even the most skeptical amongst us
might be forgiven for looking for ‘signs’ – any indication that ‘it’ is not the
very skeptical, but this has not prevented me from looking for ‘signs’ – frantically
- any tiny, tiny sign would do.
weekend a friend of Jonathan’s, a fellow artist/craftsman, came over to tie up
some loose ends concerning an unfinished commission. He brought with him his Slovakian girlfriend.
my new role as the Mourning Widow, I have not been socializing much. When I have, as you know, it has been
fraught with problems.
of course, I was all in a dither when they arrived.
was nothing to eat.
remaining hounds are quite embarrassingly excitable.
hoped, so fervently, that my guests would go as soon as business had been
washed down by a swift cup of coffee.
they didn’t go.
hours later, after we had all exchanged edited highlights of our rich and
varied pasts, my new Slovakian friend asked to see round the garden.
ignoring a part of the garden of which I am rather proud, she homed in on the
do you do with the apples?” she asked, giving me a look that might have come
from a time prior to the Velvet Revolution – a look gently loaded with
criticism of the wasteful West.
course, in the circumstances, I had not given the enormous crop of apples any
thought at all.
shuffled my feet guiltily in the neglected grass, trying to think of an
appropriate reply, we all started munching the apples.
is the variety of these apples?’ my new Slovakian friend inquired.
hadn’t a clue.
Slovakia they are called ‘Jonathan,’ ” she said, taking another bite from the
pink flesh. (Except, of course, it
is the Slovak for Jonathan which she translates.)
as you can imagine, skeptic that I am, I was almost choking on my apple in
business with the apples was strange enough. What was even more strange is that The Hounds, despite the
fact that they bounced and woofed and licked and generally were their very
boisterous and completely out of control selves, have found some potential
weekend these new friends and I are going to harvest the ‘Jonathan’ apples and I
am going to work on some serious hound bonding.
think Jonathan might have bequeathed me some angels.
to bed: tomorrow the letter …
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